


nobody puts Tony in a corner

by romanoff



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst, Domestic Avengers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt Tony Stark, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Steve Rogers Angst, Team as Family, Tony Stark Angst, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-03-17 12:14:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13658757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: Post Civil-War, Steve is called back to the States on urgent business. He expects antagonism, he expects a trap, he expects Tony.Except Tony isn’t quite the man he used to be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be cute and smulchy. And then I realised that being put into a baby’s body with all your memories but no way to communicate and being entirely reliant on others is kinda… horrific. So, it’s smulchy, with a hint of existential horror. Enjoy!

The call had come in yesterday morning. _Rogers? It’s Ross. Secretary of State Ross. No, I’m not trying to arrest you. We have a situation. I can offer immunity. It’s about Stark. He needs you._  
   
They had all told him not to go.  
   
“It’s a fucking ruse,” Clint had said. “He gets you there, Stark pops up, says ‘surprise’, and next thing you know you’re in chains 100ft under. Is that what you want?”  
   
So Steve had gone. Partly because he’s a fool, partly because he imagined a scenario with Tony on his deathbed, his last days, and Steve being too fucking stubborn to go and see him. Most likely it’s not that; Steve reasons it _is_ probably a trap. So he comes prepared.  
   
Now, he wishes it was. He wishes it was a joke. Some kind of sick, practical joke, a _ruse,_ like Clint said. A bizarre attempt at winning him over, getting him on their side. Because Steve is standing in the Raft, looking through a one-way mirror at cell with a chubby little boy being spoon-fed by a nurse. And this is where Ross so helpfully clarifies:  
   
“When we picked him up, he was a newborn.”  
   
Steve stares. He stares, and stares, and stares. He hasn’t got – there isn’t a sentence that can explain what he’s feeling. There isn’t a single word that could encapsulate – that’s Tony. That’s Tony, and he’s –  
   
One year old, or thereabouts.  
   
“No,” Steve says slowly, because it’s all becoming clear. “No, that’s not Tony. This is some kind of – what are you playing at, Ross? Hmm? You think this is what it’ll take for me to sign? Is this – that’s his kid!” He announces, seizing on the answer. “That’s Tony’s – kid, and you’re pretending that it’s Tony so I’ll, what, sign? Are you crazy? Are you both – “  
   
Ross sighs. He digs around his pocket, draws out a thin tablet, presses a few buttons. The wall lights up in pictures, and absurd slideshow. “He’s growing. We’re not entirely sure of the timeframe. One day, he can’t even lift his head, the next he’s crawling, and then he plateaus. This was him four months ago,” Ross says, blowing up a picture of a pink, squalling baby. “And this was him two weeks later.” The kid is chubbier, one fist stuck in its mouth, a neon pink building block caught in its hand.  
   
Steve looks at the baby, sitting in a highchair, a woman trying to spoon mashed banana into his mouth.  _This is a joke,_ Steve decides. He voices this opinion. “You’re fucking with me,” he says bluntly.  
   
Ross’s face remains dour. “Captain, I’ve never played a practical joke in my life.”  
   
Steve can believe it. “Hypothetically, if this was true,” he asks, “how did it happen?”  
   
“Portal in eastern Russia. I sent Stark. He doesn’t come back. Two weeks later, three hikers find a crying baby swaddled in the remains of a fucking Versace suit. We’ve _run_ the DNA. I didn’t want to believe it either, Rogers. Hell, I didn’t believe it, not until – “ Ross sighs, clicks off the photos, “let me tell you, that baby _hates_ me. And I’m good with babies, Rogers. I’ve kissed so many I’ve lost count.”  
   
“You think he remembers? I mean – that he’s really Tony?”  
   
“That’s the working theory. But kid’s brains are different. Undeveloped. It’s not just about memories, they’re smaller, they’re less – they’re just less. He’s not a happy boy. Joking aside – “ Ross looks uncomfortable “ – it’s got to be pretty jarring, waking up and not being able to speak, or lift your own head.”  
   
Steve turns back to look at the baby. He seems docile enough. Could that really be Tony? Steve can’t believe it. Maybe he doesn’t want to.  
   
“Let me see him,” he asks, quietly. “Maybe he’ll know me.”  
   
“Maybe,” Ross agrees, “but it’s your funeral. There hasn’t been a single person he’s taken to except Julia.”  
   
“She’s a doctor?”  
   
“An au pair with a stringent confidentiality agreement.”  
   
She’s vaguely ageless – she could be anywhere between her late twenties and early fourties, blonde hair pinned back neatly, petite. She’s spooning pureed food into the bab – _Tony’s_ mouth with exaggerated enthusiasm, trying to catch his attention, ‘here comes the airplane’ and ‘mmm isn’t that tasty?’  
   
“He can’t talk yet,” Ross warns him, “he’s not gonna engage you in a debate. He might drool a bit, and if he’s feeling particularly vicious, try to bite you.”  
   
“Has he bitten you?”  
   
“Once. It was very gummy. He hasn’t got teeth.” Ross waves over a tech, who inputs numbers into a keychain. A door emerges from the glass wall, backlit and handless. “Like I said,” he continues, “your funeral.”  
   
Steve has to duck to enter the room. It’s been hastily arranged to resemble a nursery; a crib, with stuffed soft animals, posters of brightly coloured children’s cartoons on the walls, a box of toys pushed in a corner, a little desk and chairs with crayons scattered atop. It doesn’t hide the stark white walls, or the shocking lack of character. It’s cold, and impersonal. Steve imagines that it was probably used to hold criminals, before.  
   
The nanny ignores him, blows a raspberry in the little boy’s face. “C’mon, Tony,” she’s coaxing. “Open up. Here it comes, here comes the airplane!”  
   
He’s slapping his pudgy hands in food, lips pressed obstinately together. He looks like Tony, Steve reasons, if Tony was a baby. Chubby, with dark hair swirling to form a wisp at the crown of his head. _Those are Tony’s eyes,_ he thinks, heart sinking into his belly. Ross can lie all he likes, but Steve finds it harder to deny what’s in front of him. He can see the places where the little boy’s face will grow, fill out.  
   
Fucking hell. What did they _do_ to him?  
   
The nanny has her hair pulled back in a tight plait, coiled at the back of her head. Steve focuses on that. He feels dizzy, suddenly. If Tony was hurt, he could handle it. If he’d been kidnapped, if he’d been tortured, if he’d had a heart attack, fine. That’s old ground. They’ve been there, they’ve done that. This is different; how do you get back from it? How do you solve it? They don’t even know where to start, they don’t even know what _caused_ it. Steve clears his throat, and the woman ignores him.  
   
“If you want to make him cry, Mr Ross, you might want to come a bit closer.”  
   
“I’m not – Ross,” Steve says awkwardly, and she turns. Frowns.  
   
“Oh,” she says, “they didn’t say you were coming.”  
   
“Yeah. Well. Here I am.”  
   
“Did they explain?” She asks briskly, setting down the smashed banana.  
   
“Yeah. Sort of. I – that’s Tony.”  
   
“Apparently. I don’t know who he is, really, or what he’s supposed to be. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a little boy, and these people are – they are not kind to him,” she snaps. English isn’t her first language, Steve realises; her accent is vaguely Eastern European, and she has almost Nordic colouring.  
   
Steve is distracted, briefly, and he looks at her directly. Blond hair, blue eyes. He frowns. “They’re not kind?” He asks.  
   
“They test him. He’s a baby. He doesn’t understand. They treat him like he is Tony Stark, and talk to him like he’s a grown man. He isn’t. It’s absurd.”  
   
“That – does sound absurd,” Steve agrees, crouching. “Can I…”  
   
“You can try. He does not like strangers.”  
   
“I’m not a stranger,” Steve murmurs, awkwardly shuffling forward on his knees. “How will I know if he recognises me?”  
   
Tony’s eyes are the same as always. Dark brown, wide, like a baby deer. On this small, pudgy face, they take up too much space, giving him an almost perpetually surprised look. Is there recognition there? Does he understand? Steve holds up his hand, waves awkwardly. “Hi, Tony,” he says, making himself small, talking in a soft, almost mushy voice, like you would if you were cooing over a puppy. “Do you know who I am?”  
   
He starts to cry.  
   
Steve knows the signs. The brow crinkles, the bottom lip starts to wobble. His eyes glass over, he draws in a deep breath; he lets it all out in a wail, cheeks reddening, kicking his legs against the highchair. Steve scurries back, lets the nanny scoop him up from the chair and pat his back, bounce him gently, humming something gentle. “That,” she hisses from the side of her mouth, “is how you if he recognises you.”  
   
“It’s not such a bad thing,” Ross explains, after Steve’s hasty exit. “It doesn’t mean he hates you. The doctor’s think – it’s a lot for him to take in. And he’s a baby. So he can’t really… articulate those feelings.”  
   
“You don’t have a single lead,” Steve presses. “You don’t know a single person that has the ability to do something like this?”  
   
“The word ‘magic’ has been thrown around.”  
   
“Don’t,” Steve warns, “just don’t.”  
   
“Can I be honest, Rogers? In the grand scheme, is this such a bad thing?”  
   
“I don’t follow.”  
   
“So he’s an infant. Infant’s _grow,_ Captain. He already is, at a faster rate than we projected, although – it’s a bit hit and miss,” he concedes. “In a year – two years, three, what’s to say he doesn’t reach a more mature age? I reckon he’d be good to go from about sixteen onwards.”  
   
“And if he doesn’t?” Steve states, pointing out the obvious. “If he grows, just like a normal kid, and we have to wait fifty years to see him again?”  
   
Ross shrugs a shoulder. “Then we find him a family, and he gets to live out his life properly. I’ll be dead. Not my problem. Some people would say it’s a blessing,” he adds. “There are people who would kill for what he’s got. The chance to do it all again.”  
   
Steve thinks that’s right. There _are_ people who would kill for that. People who would invest money in it, the key to eternal youth. He can see it in his head now: Tony, investigating, maybe sticking his nose somewhere it didn’t belong. This, the squalling, terrifying prison of infancy, his punishment. A neat solution. Don’t kill him, just place him in a body where he’ll never be able to tell a soul.  
   
Tony can’t stay here, he realises with sudden, stunning alacrity. “I’ll take him,” he blurts.  
   
Ross looks at like he’s grown a head. “No, you won’t.”  
   
“Yes, I will,” Steve repeats, firmly.  
   
“Okay, let me list the reasons why _you_ can’t take him. One, you’re a criminal wanted for treason. That should be a reason in and of itself really, don’t you think?”  
   
“So pardon me.”  
   
Ross snorts. “Right,” he laughs, “sure. Let me get the President to pardon you so can babysit the key to halting death.”  
   
“You can’t keep him here,” Steve reasons. “You can’t let him grow up in a cell. He’s not a science experiment, he’s not a – petri dish.”  
   
“You’re not even his next of kin.”  
   
“Yes, I am.”  
   
Ross halts. “Are you?”  
   
“Yes. I have been, always.”  
   
“Even since – “  
   
“Siberia? Yeah.”  
   
“Still,” Ross says, slowly. “What could you offer that would make it worth my while?”  
   
“I could find out who did this,” Steve says. “I could get them to reverse it. I could maybe even pass that information on to you.”  
   
Ross looks at him for a long time. “You’re lying,” he says eventually. “You wouldn’t do that.”  
   
“Ross, the second I leave here you can guarantee I’ll be doing it anyway. I just won’t tell you what I find.”  
   
“You’ll have to sign the Accords.”  
   
“No. When Tony is back to normal, we’ll hash amendments. Then, we’ll sign.”  
   
“I can’t give you a pardon if you’re not seen to sign,” Ross tells him, tersely. “It’s political suicide.”  
   
“So don’t tell them. We’ll wear masks. I do it all the time,” Steve says, not quite bragging, but happy to wave Ross’s inadequacy in his face. “Haven’t been caught yet.”  
   
Ross sours. “I’d be careful admitting to anything that can be used against you in a court of law.”  
   
“Give him to us,” Steve presses. “Give him to me. You’ll be able to keep an eye on him, Potts and Rhodey will be happy knowing he’s not locked in a fucking cell like a wild animal. There’s always the chance,” he adds, lightly, “that this could be leaked to the press. And then what? Can you imagine the outcry? Secretary of State Thaddeus Ross locking up a sweet, innocent little baby? And for what? Experimentation?” Steve tsks. “That just won’t do.”  
   
“I preferred you when you kept your mouth shut and looked pretty.”  
   
“You agree,” Steve says, holding out his hand. “I know you do. You get the key to youth, you get the Avengers. What more do you need?”  
   
“Shouldn’t we consider what _he_ wants,” Ross asks, jerking his head towards Tony, who is finally – finally – starting to settle. “If he wasn’t an infant, I mean. Do you really think he’d want _you_ looking after him?”  
   
“It won’t be me.”  
   
“Won’t it?”  
   
“No. We’ll – take the nanny,” Steve says, “if she wants.”  
   
“And if she doesn’t?”  
   
“Then we’ll get another,” Steve answers, impatiently. “You’re dragging your feet, I can tell.”  
   
Steve just knows Tony can’t stay here. For all he puts on an appearance of good-will, he doesn’t trust Ross. He doesn’t like what the woman said: they are not kind to him. They test him. They treat him like an adult.  
   
“We’ll need access,” Ross says, sharply. “I mean, whenever we want, our doctor’s will be allowed to see him. You don’t own him. He’s not yours.”  
   
“What kind of access?”  
   
“We need to monitor his progress. You can’t see why this is of scientific importance?”  
   
“I can see,” Steve says, keeping his voice even. “I just think we should remember he’s a kid, not a lab-rat.”  
   
“Does he look mistreated?” Ross snaps.  
   
“I don’t know. I wonder what he would say if he could speak.”  
   
Ross fixes his jaw. “We need access,” he says, “but I can limit it to once a month. On the condition you swear to focus on finding who did this, and reporting _truthfully._ If you can do that,” he concedes, “then we’ll see about the pardon. And when Stark’s fixed – fine. We can talk about amendments, too.”  
   
Steve holds out his hand. “For all of us,” he says, “pardons for me, for Wanda, Clint, Natasha, Sam, Scott. Bucky,” he adds, pointedly. “You can do that? You can promise that?”  
   
“Straight away. So long as you wear your masks until this is fixed.”  
   
“Fine,” Steve says, “a deal’s a deal.”  
   
“Fine,” Ross says, lips tight. He looks like he’s just been smacked with a lemon.  
   
   
Tony cries when they try to take him away.  
   
He wails and wails and wails, and not even the nanny can calm him. She shushes him, bounces him, sings and blows cool air on his face – nothing works, nothing sticks. “This is a bad idea,” she tells Steve, irritated. “You have come here and now you’ve upset him.”  
   
“I’m taking him away. I’m taking him somewhere better.”  
   
“Do you know how to look after children?”  
   
“No, but that’s why we’ll pay you.”  
   
“Even I can’t be there all the time,” she snaps. “Do you know how to change a diaper? What kind of food he can eat, and how much? What position he can sleep in? His favourite songs, and his favourite toys?” A brief pause. “I didn’t think so,” she sneers.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Steve says, “I didn’t catch your name.”  
   
“Julia.”  
   
“Okay, Julia. Then you can live with us. Full-time. I’ll make it worth your while, and you can leave him with us on weekends.”  
   
“What if I say no?”  
   
“You seem like you care about him a lot,” Steve says, simply. “We could do with having you on board.”  
   
In lieu of answer, she hoists Tony onto her hip, jerks her chin. “Hold him,” she orders. “Show me you know how to do that, at least.”  
   
Tony is still crying, screaming himself hoarse, little face red and eyes swollen. Steve awkwardly holds out his hands, holds Tony under his arms, away from his body. Julia rolls her eyes. “You need to put one hand under his butt,” she explains, “and hold him against your chest. He doesn’t smell, Captain, you don’t need to keep him at arm’s length.”  
   
“He’s – squirmy.”  
   
“He is upset. Hold him, and I can pack his favourites.”  
   
Desperately, Steve tries to calm him. He tries the bouncing, but it just makes Tony cry harder. He tries singing in his awkward, strained, flat voice, but it doesn’t have the same effect as when Julia does it. Is he holding him wrong? Is he… colicky? Steve doesn’t know. He realises suddenly, drastically, that his impulse to take Tony from this place may have been well-intentioned, but utterly misguided.  
   
“Tony Tony Tony,” he whispers against the little boy’s head, “Tony, Tony, Tony, it’s okay Tony.” He tries singing it: _Tony Tony Tony, it’s okay Tony, Tony Tony Tony, you’re okay, Tony._ He sings it and sings it until the words stop having meaning, turn into sounds, and he keeps singing it then, too. He says, _you’re Tony Tony, and you’re okay, you’re Tony Tony, let’s go play,_ again and again and again until –  
   
Tony coughs. He sniffs. He takes in a shaky, snotty breath, and then exhales, choppy and weak. He curls a fist by his face and goes limp. Steve keeps bouncing. He keeps singing. He’s scared if he stops, he’ll ruin this.  
   
“Congratulations,” Julia says dryly. “That only took you ten minutes.”  
   
Ten minutes? It felt like hours. It felt like _decades._ Even now, he’s too scared to even let go; if Tony wakes up – if he starts that awful wailing –  
   
One of the techs has left a little car-seat from a well-known brand. “The rest you’ll have to buy,” Julia is telling him, swiftly. “I’ll send you a list, but I’m sure you know already. Stroller, clothes, I think he could do with some more toys, these don’t really engage him. Diapers, food, a new crib, a highchair. There’s more I can’t think of,” she says, breezily. “Do you need that list?”  
   
“Yeah,” Steve tells her, weakly. “List would be good.”  
   
“He hasn’t been outside yet, not since they found him. The noise might scare him. And it’s cold, he’ll need to wrap up warm.” Julia turns to the childish chest of drawers and pulls out a big blue puffy jumpsuit. “Can you put this on him? Do you know how?”  
   
“I – sure.” Steve thinks he can, at least. “But he’s quiet. I don’t want to upset him.”  
   
“Oh, you’re right. He should just freeze, then.”  
   
“I didn’t say – okay,” Steve relents, “how do I do this without upsetting him?”  
   
She seems to take pity on him, taking a docile Tony from his arms and laying him gently on the changing table, manipulating his squishy arms and legs into the suit. He looks a bit like a eskimo when she’s done, puffy jumpsuit so big he can barely waggle his feet. “There,” Julia says. “Now you can put him in the seat.”  
   
This, Steve knows how to do. Just like strapping a drunk Clint into the quinjet, right? Except he’s so scared he’ll hurt him; Tony is so delicate like this, all small limbs and drool. What if Steve is too rough – what if he ties the strap too tight –  
   
He clicks the seatbelt in place. Tony blows a raspberry. “Ba-ba-ba-ba-da,” he says, articulately.  
   
Julia raises her eyebrows. “Well?” She says. “Are you going to respond?”  
   
Steve blinks. “Respond? To – oh! You mean – yes.” He clears his throat. “Thank you, Tony,” he says. “That’s right. Ba-ba-ba-ba-da.”  
   
“He’s not a normal infant,” Julia tells him. “You need to engage. The doctors think he has Tony Stark’s brain in there, somewhere, it’s just held back by – well, the fact he’s a baby. You _need_ to talk to him,” she stresses. “You need to keep him occupied. Make sure he isn’t scared. It must be so scary…”  
   
She trails off. “You’ve taken to this well,” Steve says. “For a normal nanny, I mean.”  
   
“A baby is a baby. This one’s just got the added – baggage.” She turns to the cot and lifts out a stuffed whale. “This is his favourite,” she says, and nestles it in the carrier. Tony burbles happily, kicks his legs. He’s calmed dramatically; Steve can’t pretend he’s not relieved.  
   
“I’ll join you later today,” Julia tells him. “The tower, the one in New York?”  
   
“The very same.”  
   
She takes pity. “If you give me the address and Mr Stark’s card details, I can purchase the items and have them delivered tomorrow.”  
   
“That would be very appreciated.”  
   
She crouches, rearranging Tony’s jumpsuit. “Okay, Tony,” she says sweetly, “you’re going home with Steve now. But don’t worry, because I’ll be there soon.”  
   
“Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-da-da-da,” Tony burbles, “da-da-daah-ba.”  
   
She lets him hold onto her fingers. “Expect his first words any day now. He ages a lot faster than normal babies. Same with walking – you really need to look out for it. He grows in a blink.”  
   
Steve carefully lifts Tony off the table. “We’ll be seeing you tonight,” he says, formally, and motions to the guard to let him leave. He starts to walk. He walks, and walks. When they enter the elevator, Tony starts to cry.  
   
Ah, fuck.  
   
Awkwardly, Steve ignores it at first. The guard stares ahead, ignoring them, but Steve feels a bizarre embarrassment, like somehow this is _his_ fault. Tony grows more shrill. He screams, and screams, and screams. Can babies die from this? Screaming and screaming and not taking in air?  
   
“Shh,” Steve says awkwardly, rocking the carrier with his foot. “It’s alright, Tony, we’re going home.” He tries to think rationally: if he were Tony, as this moment in time, being taken from the room he’s called home for the past two months, wouldn’t he also feel unsettled? Steve resolves to quieten him as soon as they get to the chopper.  
   
The guards are smirking at him. Steve glares. What do they find so funny? There’s nothing funny about this situation, it’s horrific. Tony won’t stop crying, he’s going red in the face, and now they’re going to be in a chopper, together, for the next two hours. It’s a Stark Industries design, luxury, and Steve has no problem getting the carrier attached safely to the seat. Still, Tony cries. He cries, and cries, and cries.  
   
“Ma-ma,” he screams, shrill, “ma-ma! Ma-ma! Mama!”  
   
Steve tries rocking him. The air pressure makes it worse. Tony cries take on a frantic, piercing quality, like he’s about to explode. Steve tries waving Mr Whale in his face, but Tony knocks it away. He screams and screams and screams and –  
   
Steve thinks, somewhere, that this is more than usual infant tantrums. The screams are so anguished, so shrieking, so scared, and wailing, that he wonders if this isn’t the desperate attempt of a man locked away to articulate something, anything, in the mess of confusion that will have become his life.  
   
In a fit of desperation, he snaps the belts on Tony’s carrier, lifts him bodily into his lap. “Shh, shh, shh,” he soothes, in a panicky rhythm, gently bouncing his knee. “Tony Tony Tony, you’re okay, Tony Tony Tony, let’s go play.”  
   
Tony wriggles frantically, little body arching, trying to get away. Steve holds him tighter. “You’re Tony Stark, yes you are, you’re Tony Stark, let’s – go to the park,” he finishes awkwardly.  
   
His cries cut off abruptly. He looks up, eyes blurry and red from all the crying. He sniffles, like he’s about to launch into another round, so Steve sings it again: “You’re Tony Stark, yes you are, you’re – Tony Stark,” he finishes, slowly. Oh. _Oh._  
   
Gently, he rocks Tony back and forth on his knees. “You’re Tony Stark,” he says again in a stupid, soft voice. “You’re Tony Stark. You are. _You_ are.”  
   
And he quietens. Just like that.  
   
Little Tony stuffs a fist in mouth, and Steve wipes away his tears with a thumb. His skin is overheated to the touch, flushed and damp from all the crying. He gabbles something, calmed, inquisitive. His eyes – there’s no recognition. He doesn’t _know._ But the words comfort him, Steve thinks. They seem to quell whatever panic he’s holding in his little head.  
   
   
Someone has been through the tower and prepared it already. There’s a travel crib in what used to be his bedroom, some baby-fiable food in the fridge, along with some sterilized bottles and powdered milk. Steve sets Tony on the kitchen island and looks at the list Julia had given him. _One bottle at lunch,_ she’s written. _His growth targets are all screwed up – he eats puree, but only because he doesn’t have teeth._  
   
There’s no highchair, so Steve sets him up on the couch and mentally apologises in advance for the mess he’s about to make. He picks out the chicken and pasta kiddy meal, sticks it in the microwave, and tests it on his tongue. There. He can be responsible. He knows what he’s doing. How hard can this be?  
   
Tony decides he doesn’t want chicken and pasta. He smears it on his shirt, he smears it on the couch, he smears it on _Steve._ Obstinately, he won’t eat it, articulating this sentiment as “ga-ba-ba-da-ba (blows raspberry)”. Steve tries more squashed banana; this he takes, easily. Steve remembers that Tony loves banana and berries, that when they lived together he was always eating one of the other. Maybe that’s it. Maybe little Tony still likes fruit.  
   
Steve doesn’t think of the absurdity that his life has become. He doesn’t think about his one-time friend and –  
   
It doesn’t matter. Push those thoughts from your head. Don’t indulge. Don’t even consider it. Tony is gone, this is Tony now, a scared little boy who is dependent on you for everything. Fuck what happened. Fuck Siberia. Fuck what the others will think – because they will have opinions, Steve knows.  
   
In his gut – in his belly – Steve just _knows_ he couldn’t leave Tony in that room, with the doctors, and the psychiatrists, and the tests. He doesn’t trust Ross as far as he can throw him.  
   
After, he hikes Tony on his hip. “We’ll make you a bedroom,” he says, “a proper bedroom, with books, and toys. I don’t know much about – kids stuff. But Clint does, and he – “  
   
_Hates you._ “And he’ll help,” Steve says, firmly, ignoring the insanity of talking to an infant. “Definitely. With the clothes, and the toys, and books – and you’ll have everything you need, everything you want.”  
   
Little Tony rests his cheek on Steve’s shoulder; the wisp on the crown on his head tickles his ear. “Shh,” Steve soothes, “you won’t need to be sad. We’re gonna help you, little guy. We’ll figure out what’s going on.”  
   
“Mama,” Tony gurgles. “Mama, ba-da-ba.”  
   
Is that just sound? Or is Tony actually trying to say ‘mama’? There is no mama here. “Look,” Steve says, pointing out the window. “You know where we are? You know where that is? It’s New York City. You were born – “  
   
He stops himself. No need to confuse him. “You live here,” Steve says, “this is your home.”  
   
Tony’s little hands grasp, wriggling in Steve’s arms. He wants to touch the window, so Steve lets him; he presses his thick fingers against the glass, gasps. “Ah!” He says, taking back his hand.  
   
“What is it?” He asks. “What’s wrong? Is it cold?”  
   
Tony puts his hand back on the glass, jerks it away, laughs at himself. This time, it’s a deep, hiccupping chortle. “Ah!” He breathes, making himself giggle.  
   
Steve rests his palm on the window, and Tony leans forward, tries to press his hand to Steve’s. He finds it fascinating, the five fingers, the ring he’s wearing on his thumb. Steve blows a raspberry into the glass, and Tony _screams,_ like he’s never seen anything funnier in his life. He laughs, and laughs, and laughs, until Steve worries that he’s going to choke. He tries to copy, rocking forward to smash his face against the glass.  
   
“I think that’s enough of that,” Steve tells him, warmly, holding him back against his chest. “Yeah, that’s enough wildness for one day, am I right? You got to ride a helicopter today, Tony, that’s more than most people will ever do a lifetime.”  
   
“Abah,” Tony agrees. Or at least, Steve likes to think he agrees.  
   
   
Julia cooks them dinner that night while Steve lies on his belly, watching Tony roll around the carpet. He makes a note to pad all the sharp edges – Tony’s sense of style has always been minimalist curves and lines, which is easy on the eye but not on the side of the head when you’re roughly a foot tall.  
   
He’s explained to the team that they’re needed, that they’ve been granted pardons. He tells them to bring some of the stealth tech from Wakanda to mask their faces. He tells them, Ross has granted clemency because there skills are necessary to solve a big problem, and Tony is out of the picture. He didn’t tell them _why_ Tony was out of the picture; he’s not sure how they would take it, both the knowledge that Stark is now a baby, and that they’re required to help.  
   
He thinks they’ll help. He thinks they’ll do it gladly.  
   
He hopes.  
   
After they’ve eaten, Julia washes Tony in the kitchen sink. She dresses him in warm, fluffy pyjamas and tells Steve that she’s going to put him to bed. Steve watches how she does it; laying Tony in his crib, dimming the lights, humming a little tune. When he finally settles, she slips away, silent, leaving the door ajar. “If he cries, ignore him,” she says. “It’s not cruel, it’s common sense.”  
   
Right. That’s what Steve’s Mom always said. Unless they’re hungry, or they’ve made a mess, it’s okay to let them cry. You’re supposed to let them cry. Otherwise they get too attached, or spoilt. They don’t learn to keep their own time, in their own bed. Anyway, how hard can it be? Steve can stick a pillow over his ears. And Tony is so peaceful now, sleeping in the crib, fists curled by his head. He’ll be fine. It’ll be fine.  
   
It isn’t.  
   
He starts crying about two hours after they put him down. Steve resists the urge. When it’s his turn to go to sleep, he tosses and turns. At a certain point they just give up is what Julia told him; they give up, and go back to sleep.  
   
Tony doesn’t. He’s always been stubborn. It’s not even crying: it’s the godawful screaming, screeching, that he’s never heard any of baby make. It’s like he’s trying to force his lungs out through his throat.  
   
Sense flees. There’s only one reason a child would make a noise like that, and it’s if they’re in great pain. Steve opens Tony’s door, flips the light switch, and sees him standing, hands fisted on the edge of the cot, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing.  
   
“Oh hey,” Steve says, quietly, reaching down to scoop him up. “What’s up, little guy? Did you have a bad dream?”  
   
Tony’s screams quieten to normal, baby-sized sobs. Steve tries to think; could he be in pain? Is it the growing? Is he teething? Is he scared, confused? Could be all three, could be none. He rocks him for what feels like hours but is probably no more than fifteen minutes. When he is quiet, and drifting, he sets him down and leaves.  
   
Twenty minutes later, he’s crying again.  
   
This time, Steve resolves to ignore it. He was fine before, he’ll be fine again. But the cries – they’re pained, he’s sure of it, desperate and panicky. You’re supposed to leave babies to cry, but Tony is no ordinary baby. Who knows what’s going through his mind, who knows what he sees. Does he have Tony’s memories? Could he? Could he be shutting his eyes and seeing blood blotting snow, the depths of space, knives and guns and violence and death and torture? No child should have to see that, no child should have to process it.  
   
He gives in. “Shh,” he soothes again, rocking around the room, smoothing a hand across Tony’s overheated back. “Shh, it’s alright, Tony Stark. You’re okay, Tony. You’re scared, I understand. It’s okay. We’re – we’re not gonna listen to Julia. She’s good, but she’s not that good. She’s wrong on this.”  
   
At some point in Tony’s fit, he had thrown Mr Whale from his crib. Steve neatly deposits both of them back down, and lifts the travel-cot fully. Tony gives a short gasp, cries cutting out, head whipping round to try and understand how he is moving when his legs and arms aren’t and no one is holding him.  
   
Tony does a 180 and starts to giggle. “Shh,” Steve whispers, “if she hears us she’ll be mad.”  
   
It’s hard going to manoeuvre him through the door, but easy enough to carry him down the hall to Steve’s quarters. “You get to sleep here,” he says, putting Tony and crib down by the side of his bed, “and you get to look at me all night and know I’m there, and you’re not alone, and everything is fine.”  
   
Steve settles back down. He hopes Tony will, too. But the kid is standing again, bouncing impatiently and holding on to the edge of the crib. He makes little graspy movements with his hands and irritable little sounds. His face crumples. He starts to cry.  
   
This time, Steve doesn’t waste time. He scoops Tony up and puts him on the bed, brackets him with pillows so he can’t roll off in the night. This goes against all the parenting books, he’s 100% certain. But just like that, Tony –  
   
Sleeps. Exhausted, tuckered out, he sleeps on his back, belly rising and falling slowly, gentle. Steve doesn’t move; he barely allows himself to breathe. Carefully, oh so carefully, he lowers himself down onto the bed, desperate not to make any sudden movement. He listens to the whistle of Tony’s breathing. He keeps listening, waits for any sign of discomfort, distress.  
   
But there isn’t any. Steve’s eyes grow heavy. At some point, he sleeps.


	2. Chapter 2

He cries every night.  
   
It doesn’t matter where you put him. In his room, in his crib, anywhere that isn’t in bed, with Steve, where he can roll in the night and fall off and _die._  
   
Julia insists this is Steve’s fault. That he needed to be left alone that first night, and he would have got the message. Steve isn’t so sure; Tony isn’t like a normal baby. He shits, and cries, and makes a mess, _sure,_ but he’s not – normal.  
   
He’s sombre. When he’s not crying, he’s liable to just be lying on his front, and staring at nothing. It’s terrifying, that kind of convalescence from a young child. And when he’s not doing that –  
   
The screaming. The fits take him without pattern, or reason. One day, not long after taking his first steps, Steve plays the window game with a mirror. He makes raspberries against the shiny surface until Tony chortles and kicks his feet and blows bubbles with happiness. He loves the game, it’s a surefire way to cheer him up, so when Steve waves a hand in the mirror and points at them both, big and little, he doesn’t expect Tony to burst into tears, but he _does._  
   
Someday, he’ll just wake up and _scream._ Julia will change him, and feed him, and give him teething toys and a gel for the pain, but that’s not the reason. He screams, and screams, and screams, from 9AM to 9PM, until Steve’s ears are numb and he desperately, more than anything else, wants him to just _shut up._  
   
He dances him, he rocks him, he sings him songs and tells him stories. On days like this the old tricks don’t work. Tony is an infantile evil mastermind. Maybe this was their plan all along: shrink him so he can break Steve’s fucking spirit from within.  
   
“He’s teething,” Julia says, flatly. “He’s growing much faster than most babies grow. It hurts more than you think.”  
   
Steve disagrees. Even teething babies don’t cry this much. Growing pains don’t hurt _that_ bad. Tony cries at seemingly innocuous objects, his reflection, when he’s left alone, when he’s put down. He wants to be rocked _constantly._ He wants Steve, or Julia, relentlessly. He cries, incessantly. It’s too much. Steve knows he’s hurting, somewhere, but he doesn’t know what to do.  
   
In the week Steve has him, he takes his first steps and says his first words. By the end of the week, he’s migrated from rolling on the floor to zooming down the hallway, giggling madly as Steve tries to catch him. It’s a game he loves. On the good days, when Tony wakes up as a bright and bonny baby without a care in the world, Steve can spend hours just doing this, chasing him, throwing him in the air, watching him shove brightly coloured shapes into the right holes. “Aren’t you a clever boy?” Steve will tell him, and Tony will proudly hold up a green triangle like it’s a precious diamond.  
   
His first word is ‘Stark’. Steve holds him, singing to calm him. _You’re Tony Stark, yes you are, you’re number one, yes you are._ After, his lips lisp one word: “Stah-ak.”  
   
“Stack?” Steve asks, “You trying to say something, buddy?”  
   
“Stah-ak. Stah-ark.”  
   
“Stark? Stark! _Stark!_ That’s right, little guy! Stark! Stah-ark. Say it again, c’mon. St-ark.”  
   
But Tony doesn’t. He’s always been stubborn. He looks up at Steve and giggles, grasps at his nose. He can’t help but think he’s saying _hah, check you. Aren’t you an idiot?_  
   
   
They arrive some one week after Tony and Steve and Julia form an unconventional family in the Tower. Natasha and Wanda, Sam and Buck, Clint with a wife and three kids in tow. Vision joins them – Rhodes is a no show. Steve isn’t sure if it’s the principle of it, an unwillingness to share space with the people they fought against, or if he really _does_ have two-week conference in Moscow. He’s betting on the former.  
   
He tells Julia to keep Tony busy. Not to let him down to the main floor, and to make sure he doesn’t get curious. He has no idea how he’ll react when he sees strangers in their home. Strangers, or depending on which Tony-Regression school of thought you subscribe too, individuals who were once enemies.  
   
Steve remembers how Tony reacted to him. He maintains that whatever is going on in the little guy’s head is linked to old memories; he’s sure of it. But he and Tony get along now, and the kid doesn’t mind him anymore. Could be, after a while, Tony will warm to the team, too.  
   
So long as they warm to him, first.  
   
Steve finds it hard to understand how you _couldn’t._ Like this, Tony is guileless. Innocent. His world revolves around mashed banana and bedtimes and chasing Steve down the hallway and watching kid’s cartoons. Anything he did as an adult – it doesn’t matter. He’s not an adult. He’s barely even Tony Stark. He’s a kid that takes simple pleasure in finger painting and chocolate mousse.  
   
He explains this, short, blunt, to the point. “He’s a child,” he says.  
   
Clint snorts. “Yeah, we know that, Steve. Isn’t he going to come say hi?”  
   
“No,” Steve repeats. “He’s a child. Literally, he’s been – turned into a child.”  
   
Clint opens his mouth, then shuts it again. “Come again?” Natasha asks.  
   
“We don’t know – how, exactly. It’s hard to explain. Ross said – “  
   
“Oh, Ross said?” Sam chimes in. “Well, if Ross said…”  
   
“He said,” Steve presses on, “that he sent Tony to investigate a portal in east Russia. He was gone two weeks. When he came back – he was found. As a newborn, in the Versace suit he flew out in. And they’ve run tests, _I’ve_ run tests, I’ve checked and double-checked and – it’s him. It’s definitely him.”  
   
“A child.”  
   
“A baby. Well – he’s sort of edging into toddler, now. He ages fast. Faster than most kids. A rate of about two months to one year.”  
   
“He’s a toddler,” Clint says, flatly. “Tony Stark is a toddler.”  
   
“Does he know?” Natasha asks, always getting the pertinent question. “Is he aware? Does he know you? Does he remember?”  
   
“The working theory is – sort of. We figure, he must have the memories, but he’s a kid. His brain is small, it’s undeveloped. He seems to know some things. He cries a lot. He tried to bite Ross.”  
   
“Nice,” Clint says.  
   
“Yeah, great. But it’s disorientating. Sometimes, he’s a normal kid. Other times – he has these fits, you know? He cries and cries and cries. Screams. And it’s not the usual baby stuff, it’s like he’s… _aware._ Like he’s scared, or doesn’t know – “ Steve makes a frustrated noise. “It isn’t funny. It’s not a joke. He can’t speak, he can’t do anything. If Tony is in there – “  
   
“If he’s in there, we’ll know,” Wanda says, quietly. “I’ll know.”  
   
“No,” Steve says. “Wanda, he’s a kid. He doesn’t need – “  
   
“It doesn’t hurt. I wouldn’t hurt him. I can just look,” Wanda tells him. “I mean – if you want me to. I don’t have to.”  
   
Steve debates. “I don’t know,” he relents, “he gets scared, you know? Nervous. I don’t want him to feel – you’ll see,” he says, texting Julia.  
   
She arrives not long later, Tony trailing like a lost lamb, clutching her hand. He’s hiding behind Julia’s leg, instinctive, fist-in-mouth, brow furrowed. “Stev?” He burbles, questioning. Trusting.  
   
“Tony,” Steve says, crouching and holding out his arms. “Come here, little man. There’s some people I want you to meet.”  
   
Tony goes tumbling into his chest, delighted at the game. Running is play, for him. He knows the rules: if he runs at Steve, Steve will throw him in the air, and it’ll be like flying. Steve does; he throws him once, twice, three times, and spins him around, little legs akimbo, chortling like a madman.  
   
He hikes him up on his hip, turns him towards the assembled group. “This is Tony,” he says, pointedly. “He’s about – 16 months right now.”  
   
Tony shoves his fist in his mouth, gnaws absently. He looks warily from face to face; Steve watches, to see if there’s any recognition at all, but none is forthcoming. His eyes remain empty, nothing but curiosity stirring behind them. A blank slate.  
   
“He’s cute,” Wanda says. “I like chubby babies.”  
   
That catches Tony’s attention. He starts to agitate. He makes a little noise around his fist, wriggles in Steve’s grip. “Hey,” Steve soothes, “it’s alright little guy.”  
   
He moves to place Tony in her lap, and he starts to cry. _He knows._ “No no,” Wanda says, trying to be helpful, “it’s alright. Shh, don’t cry.”  
   
This doesn’t help, at all. Tony starts to bawl, kicking against Steve’s chest, slapping his pudgy hands against his back. “Nuh,” he says, tears streaming down his face, soaking Steve’s shirt. “Mama,” he wails, “mama, mama.”  
   
“Shh,” Wanda tries to soothe, stroking his hair off his head. It makes him scream louder, lurch his body away, kick his legs, reach out for Julia, fingers grasping. He’s scared.    
   
“You’re hurting him,” Julia snaps, arms folded, terse, on edge. “Look, you’re just upsetting him now. This is – absurd, give him to me – “  
   
“Julia, if we do this now, Wanda might be able to tell us who changed him in the first place,” Steve says, trying to be reasonable. “We can help him, see what he’s so afraid – “  
   
“Of her! Are you all blind? Obviously, he’s afraid of her, and you, and you, and you,” she spits, pointing at each Avenger in turn. “It is not rocket science, it is not difficult to understand. He is a little boy, and he is scared!”  
   
“It will only take ten seconds,” Wanda implores.  
   
“Julia, she’s right,” Steve says, trying to be calm, but it’s hard when Tony is screeching and won’t stop. He’s arching himself off of Wanda’s lap, squirming so hard she’s about to drop him. “It’ll be over in a moment, and he won’t even realise.”  
   
“Quiet, little one,” Wanda says lightly, resting her hand on the top of Tony’s head. He stills; docile, with the occasional sniff. He sticks his fist in his mouth and sucks. He sits, calm, on Wanda’s lap.  
   
“What did you do?” Julia asks, accusatory.  
   
“I calmed him. It’s harmless, I do it all the time,” Wanda says, distracted, brow furrowing. “Quiet, I’m trying to think.”  
   
Wanda holds her hand over his head. A minute passes, and then two. Tony is quiet, eyeing them warily, looking around the room. And finally, Wanda says:  
   
“I see nothing substantial.”  
   
Clint folds his arms. “Meaning?”  
   
“It’s not memories, necessarily. Flashes, maybe. Instinct. Steve was right, he is too undeveloped. The scaffolding is there, but nothing is filling it in.”  
   
“So he’s a baby?” Steve presses. “A real baby?”  
   
“I mean, he’s not normal. He’s growing fast. But – “ she leans closer and squishes him “ – he is very cute and cuddly, too,” she says in a simpering, treacle voice.  
   
Natasha sighs. “So he’s not – haunted by the ghosts of his past, or anything. I mean – he’s not Tony, locked inside a kid’s body?”  
   
“No. He has memories, or vestiges, but I don’t think he knows what they mean. I can see us, through him. We confuse him. He fears us, he likes us, he has lots of mixed emotions. So he cries. He doesn’t like being left at night, because he feared the dark as an adult, and so he fears it now, too. Although he’s an infant, he expects to see – something else, when he looks in the mirror. So he cries when he sees his reflection. Poor baby,” Wanda soothes, smoothing his hair back off of his brow, “it’s all very confusing for him.”  
   
“Why does he cry?” Steve presses. “There are days where he just – doesn’t stop. You think he’s going to choke.”  
   
Wanda is thoughtful, lightly bouncing Tony on her knee. “He’s a baby,” she says, quietly, as if that’s an explanation.  
   
“And?”  
   
“And – “ there’s an awkward silence. “And babies love their mothers. He misses his mom. He doesn’t understand why she isn’t here.”  
   
Bucky says nothing, does nothing. It’s not like it’s his fault; Howard and Maria wouldn’t be alive today, even if they hadn’t died thirty years ago. But it’s the mention, the thought of it. The room prickles.  
   
“Oh, poor baby boy,” Wanda coos, lifting him round. “He misses his momma. He just doesn’t know why she isn’t here. It’s instinctual,” she explains, “babies expect to have mothers. Even baby monkeys – “  
   
“I saw that,” Clint chimes in. “They took the baby monkeys from their mothers. They couldn’t handle it, poor little bastards. There was a doc on PBS years ago.”  
   
“Mama,” Tony gurgles, as if agreeing happily. “Mama, mama.”  
   
“Mama,” Wanda fusses, “that’s right! Ma-ma. Can you say da-da baby boy? Can you say Steve? Steve? Steve?”  
   
“Stev,” Tony says, then blows a raspberry.  
   
Wanda laughs, scratching her fingers through Tony’s hair. It’s gotten longer over the past week, thicker, more than a child his age should have. It’s like his body is growing at different rates, all the parts of him playing catch-up to the other. He’s only just getting his teeth, but he has the hair of a two year old. He has a vocabulary of about five words, but can run and climb like a toddler. The science behind his aging is a mystery.  
   
“Did you see anything?” Steve pries. “Can you see anything? About who did this?”  
   
“It’s very hazy, Steve. It would have been when he was newborn, and that’s – impossible to remember. No one remembers that, not even children.”  
   
“Nothing? At all?”  
   
Wanda makes a sound, a mix between exhaustion and exasperation. “No, Steve. Fear, maybe. But he’s a child, he fears everything. Flashes of – red, orange. Could be blood. Could be – it’s hard to explain. Sometimes, when I look at people’s minds, the memories they cannot see are murky, orange and brown. It could be that. Steve, I don’t know. If I knew, I would say. But I don’t. Maybe when he is older,” she says, stroking his hair. “The mind clarifies.”  
   
“I think you have held him enough,” Julia says, formally. “He will be tired. It is time for a nap.”  
   
“Mama,” Tony bubbles, clapping his hands. “Mama, mama.”  
   
Julia grabs him out of Wanda’s lap and carries him on her hip. His brow furrows. His lip wobbles. He looks around in confusion. And then he starts to cry.  
   
“Look at what you’ve done,” Julia snaps, “you’ve upset him, all of you.”  
   
“I can’t calm him if you take him away,” Wanda says, talking louder to be heard over Tony’s cries.  
   
“Steven, tell her,” Julia orders. “Tell her she’s upsetting him.”  
   
“I think it is enough for today,” Steve tries to mediate. “He’s tuckered out.”  
   
Wanda relents, easy. “Whatever you say,” she says, holding up her hands, but she’s eyeing Julia in a way that kinda suggests she isn’t all that happy.  
   
Tony won’t stop wailing. They’re tired, scared little cries, his eyes full of tears. He lays a cheek on Julia’s shoulder; he tries to hide his face with tiny, pudgy fists. “Shh,” Julia is soothing, rocking him. “Shh, shh, shh little man, I’m here. They won’t touch you now.”  
   
   
Tony is sleeping. He has his cheek tucked against the pillow, hand resting on his belly, face content, peaceful. Steve holds his breath, if only to check that he can hear Tony’s; and he can. His stomach rises and falls, proving that he is sleeping soundly.  
   
He knows, that in two hours, three, four, Tony will wake himself, roused by a bad dream, or little horrors only he can see. If awake, Steve will hear the patter of his feet down the hall, he’ll hear him push open the door that is always kept unlocked, pad over to where Steve is reading or going through a report Ross has sent through. He’ll pull himself up on to the bed, and bury his head into a pillow. He’ll fall asleep.  
   
If Steve is sleeping, he’ll be awoken by the tap of a little hand on his back. “Stev,” Tony will whisper, lisping, urgent. He’s so advanced, and yet so small, his mind outpacing his body some days, the reverse on others. He’ll pull at Steve’s vest, insistent, until Steve turns, bleary.  
   
“Tony?” He’ll say. “What’s up little guy?”  
   
He’ll make grasping motions with hands, and Steve will sigh, sit up and lift him onto the bed, settle him down on the side that has, somehow, become _his._ “Just tonight,” he always swears. “Tomorrow you need to sleep by yourself, okay? I mean it,” he lies to himself, “this isn’t good for either of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter this time! I'm trying this thing where I release shorter, but more frequent, chapters. 
> 
> Next time we start getting into the meat of it. It was really hard trying to write the reunions and tbh i have more interesting things coming up. But yeah, please comment and let me know what you think! I basically only write for the comments.


	3. Chapter 3

Breakfast. Tony, at some point in the week, has migrated from highchairs to booster seats. He’s slapping his hands happily on the tray, smearing around his breakfast in an artful design. “Don’t do that,” Steve frowns, bee-lining for the coffee pot.  
   
“It’s about self-expression,” Julia shoots back.  
   
“So get him some pencils.”  
   
“Where are your friends?” She asks, cautiously. She’s cut up Tony’s food into small, bitesize pieces, but it’s hard for him. While he’s roughly the shape and size of a two-year-old, with a two-year-old’s dietary needs, his teeth are only just coming through.  
   
“You don’t like them,” Steve says, by way of answer.  
   
“I didn’t say that. I like them fine. I just don’t think they’re good for Tony.”  
   
“They’ve barely met Tony.”  
   
A beat. “I mean before.”  
   
Oh. “I didn’t know you felt so strongly,” Steve says carefully, pouring himself coffee.  
   
“Yeah, I bet you don’t. But people on the ground… we feel differently, you know? All you had to do was sign,” Julia mutters, wiping mush from Tony’s lips. “Would it have been so bad if you had?”  
   
“I didn’t realise you were so political.” It’s not that he doesn’t agree, or even that he doesn’t want to discuss it, but it’s early morning and water under the bridge.  
   
“I’m not. I just don’t think everyone in this tower has his best interests at heart.”  
   
“What do you think will happen?”  
   
Julia purses her lips. “I don’t think it’s safe to have a trained assassin share an apartment with a baby.”  
   
“Julia…”  
   
“What if he wigs out? What if tries to finish the job? I don’t understand why they had to come here at all. They upset him.”  
   
“I upset him, the first time he saw me. Now we’re best buddies, right Tony?”  
   
Tony’s face lights up, and he gurgles happily. “Stev!” He laughs, slapping his hands on the tray. “Stev!”  
   
Steve blows a raspberry in his face, and Julia continues. “He’s vulnerable,” she states, shortly. “He can’t protect himself.”  
   
“From what?”  
   
“It would be very easy to end the whole Accords mess if someone were to just cover his face with a pillow in the night,” she says, darkly.  
   
Steve rounds on her. “Are you fucking crazy?”  
   
“It’s the truth.”  
   
“No one is going to – Jesus, Julia!” Steve reaches down and plucks Tony from his chair, holds him against his chest and covers the back of his head with a hand, protective, instinctive. “No one is going to – “ he whispers the word “ _– murder_ him. They wouldn’t, not even if he was a man. Just – how could you think – “  
   
“We’re not all killers and thieves,” Natasha says, easily. She’s dressed in a fuzzy gown, her hair pulled up in a bun, casual, non-threatening. “Hi,” she says, holding out her hand. “We didn’t get a chance to talk, yesterday.”  
   
Julia narrows her eyes. “Natasha Romanoff,” she says.  
   
“That’s right. And you are…”  
   
“Julia. I’m a nanny.”  
   
“Well, I’m a spy, and I promise, I won’t throttle Tony in the night. I always have been rather fond of him, you know.”  
   
Julia says nothing, just watches her move around the kitchen. Tony stops fussing and stares, mouth open, brow furrowed, as if he doesn’t know what to make of her. “Stev,” he says, patting his shoulder impatiently and pointing at Natasha. “Look. Look.”  
   
“There?” Steve says, following Tony’s finger. “Natasha? She’s your – “ _friend,_ seems strange, heavy on the tongue, not-right. “Auntie,” Steve settles, “she’s your auntie.”  
   
Tony frowns, and pats his head. He looks at Steve, and pats his. “Hair,” he says.  
   
“Hair? What about – oh! Natasha’s hair! She has red hair. Do you know what colour your hair is?”  
   
Tony shakes his head. “Nu-uh,” he says.  
   
“Yours is brown. Natasha, get over here and let Tony see your hair.”  
   
He’s entranced. “Red,” he says, like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. He grabs a strand and rolls it over his fingers, leaving Natasha to wince.  
   
“A bit hard there, my little friend.”  
   
Tony’s only ever seen people with blond hair, Steve reasons, and hasn’t really grasped the concept of a reflection yet. “Do you know what colour your hair is, Tony?” Steve repeats.  
   
“Nuh-uh.”  
   
Steve sits Tony on his lap and takes out his phone, switching on the front camera. “You see?” He smiles. “That’s me, and that’s you.”  
   
Tony’s brow furrows. “Me?” He questions.  
   
“You.”  
   
“Me? That me, Stev?” He asks, lisping.  
   
“Sure it is. Wave. See? That’s you.”  
   
But Tony isn’t happy. He starts to agitate. “No,” he says, shaking his head, “no, no, no.”  
   
Swiftly, Steve puts down the phone. Tony gets upset. His reflection unsettles him. “Here,” Steve says, distracting him, “let’s look at Natasha some more.”  
   
“You’re a very big boy,” Natasha says, crouching. “That means you’re going to grow up to be nice and strong.”  
   
Tony smiles, gummy and sweet, at the praise. He pushes a fist into his mouth, shy.  
   
“Can you walk, Tony?”  
   
Tony nods. “Uh huh,” he says, “I run.”  
   
Natasha plays wonderment. “Wow! You can _run?”_  
   
Tony squirms off Steve’s lap, inching to the floor. He zooms to the kitchen cabinet and back, flying into Steve’s arms, giggling and proud. Natasha stands, and ruffles his hair. “You are a very speedy boy, aren’t you? Just a regular Usain Bolt.”  
   
“Ya!”  
   
“You are,” Natasha says, indulgently. “You know,” she says, turning to Steve, “he’s a bit of a mixed bag, isn’t he?”  
   
“Meaning?”  
   
“I don’t know. He’s missing teeth, but he speaks well enough.”  
   
“I think it’s conceptual. He knows what he wants to say, just hasn’t got the words for it yet. He will, though. He’s getting there.”  
   
“You should measure him.”  
   
“Huh?”  
   
“Against the wall. With a pencil.”  
   
“Oh. Sure, why not.” Steve urges Tony to the floor, takes him by the hand and toddles with him to the wall. “Hey Nat, pass me the knife?”  
   
Julia’s eyes widen. “A _knife?”_  
  
 _“_ A butter knife,” Steve says, apologetically. “Sorry, I thought that was clear.”  
   
He marks an indent into the wall, right above the crown of Tony’s head. “There you go,” he says, “look, Tones, that’s how tall you are.”  
   
He stands on his toes. “Taller,” he says.  
   
Steve laughs. “Not yet, little man. But you’re getting there, just you wait.”  
   
There’s a blur of activity. A bomb, a short, two-year old shaped bomb, comes diving through the doorway. “Nathianel!” Natasha coos, and scoops him up into her arms. “Oh my God, look at you! Aren’t you a big boy now, huh?”  
   
Clint follows through, slower, lacking the enthusiasm of his son. “Hey Steve,” he grumbles. “Kids are still in bed, but I’ve got little duty. You marking his height?” He says, one eyebrow raised. “Cute. Not sure Stark’ll appreciate it when he’s back, though.”  
   
“We’re trying to give him authentic childhood experiences,” Steve explains.  
   
“Yeah well, you can try. Nathan, c’mere. You’re having breakfast.”  
   
“Stev,” Tony says urgently, pulling at his sleeve. “Stev, who that?”  
   
“That? That’s – Clint’s little boy,” he explains, and then realises this might not make sense. “He’s Clint’s son,” he tells him, like that makes it better.  
   
Tony clutches Steve’s hand, terrified. “Stev,” he whispers, hiding behind his leg.  
   
Nathanial stares at Tony like he’s a curiosity and sucks his pacifier. Then he smiles, a wide, gurgling thing, and waves his hand in jerky little movements. Tony buries his face against Steve’s hip and refuses to budge, pulling against Steve’s attempts to lead him out.  
   
“Sorry, Nathan. Tony’s a little shy.”  
   
Nathan takes the pacifier out of his mouth and stumbles over to Tony, holding it out, a gift. Tony shies away, looping round to Steve’s other hip. “It’s alright,” Steve says kindly, “you can keep it. C’mere, Tones.” He lifts him up and lets him bury his head in the crook of his neck.  
   
“A good morning,” Vision says formally, floating across the floor. Wanda follows, hair unbrushed, eyeliner smudged beneath her eyes. “It is good to see everyone back, and cordial.”  
   
Tony looks up. His mouth drops open. He _stares._  
   
“Hello little one,” Vision smiles, serene. “I wonder if he knows me,” he adds, quieter, to Steve.  
   
Tony gawps, eyes wide, mouth slack, brow slightly furrowed. He reaches out and lightly ghosts Vision’s face with his fingers, tips his head quizzically.  
   
“I’m your friend,” Vision tells him, “I know I look strange, but I won’t harm you.”  
   
Tony’s eyes grow cloudy. “Jarvs?” He asks.  
   
“Fascinating,” Vision murmurs. “No, little one. I’m not him.”  
   
It’s confused him. Steve should have known it would. Vision looks guilty, as if this is his fault, but it’s not; no child looks at a green, floating man, and feels fine. “Jarvs,” he says again, as if the word doesn’t make sense to him. He blinks. And then he starts to cry.  
   
“It is too much for him,” Julia sighs. “Steven, stop throwing him in stranger’s faces.”  
   
“I wasn’t,” Steve says, defensively.  
   
“It’s alright,” Vision says, landing on the ground with a small jolt. “I forget to walk. It’s been a long time since we’ve have company.”  
   
Steve tactfully doesn’t mention that the red face and voice of a long-lost mentor might have been what did it. “I think Tony’s had enough,” he says, “maybe it’s time for a bath.” He picks some food out of his hair.  
   
Julia scoops him out of Steve’s arms, much to his delight; he loves being swung around, thrown up and down, spun. He kicks his legs happily and settles against Julia’s shoulder, waving a fist. “Bye,” he says, a sound, not a word. “Bye. Bye. Bye.”  
   
“Bye-bye,” Steve says, twitching his fingers. “It’s bath time for you.”  
   
“Bath,” Tony agrees, but with his lisp it’s adorably drawn out. “Baf,” he’s saying, “baf, baf.”  
   
“He’s cute,” Clint says grudgingly, watching Julia carry him away. “And the nanny, she’s good with him.”  
   
“A little too good,” Steve says wryly. “I think she’s getting attached.”  
   
“And you?” Natasha asks, resting against his back while he sits at the counter, “You’re not getting attached at all?”  
   
Steve shrugs, pretends, acts like it’s all nothing to him at all, all in day’s work. “He’s a cute kid,” he says, nonchalantly.  
   
Tony loves bath time, usually. He and Julia alternate, although Steve thinks Tony prefers _his_ bathtime routine more. Steve lets him fill up the bubbles all the way to the top, and Julia’s a stickler who hates extra mess. Good cop, bad cop.  
   
He wonders what’ll happen when the inevitable occurs: Tony grows enough to no longer need 24-supervision and a diaper change. They won’t need Julia then, but Steve doesn’t know how they’d tell her; it seems like she’s attached to him, and him to her, and Steve doesn’t want to talk away anything that gives Tony stability, even if she is uptight and mildly arrogant.  
   
He’s finishing his breakfast when Julia comes back onto the main floor; she looks flustered, more than Steve’s ever seen her. The usually crisp lines of her hair are curled, face flushed, shirt rolled up to her elbows. “He wouldn’t get in the bath,” she says, like it’s an admission of defeat. “Now he won’t stop screaming. I don’t know what’s wrong.”  
   
Steve drops his toast. “Shit,” he mutters, brushing down crumbs, “right, yeah, I’m coming now.”  
   
“Kids don’t like bath time,” Clint chimes in, spooning food into Nathan’s mouth. “You’ve got yourself a handful.”  
   
Clint doesn’t understand, because he’s never _seen_ one of Tony’s fits. The closer he gets, the more he can hear his cries echoing down the hall. Julia’s dressed him like he’s going for a swim; it’s meant to make it fun for him. They give him a big floaty and some rubber ducks, a bright green bathing suit and even some sunglasses, which he loves, and bath time has never, ever been an issue.  
   
It’s almost comical, if it wasn’t so tragic. Tony, pressed up against the bedroom wall, floaty gripped in his little hands and sunglasses pushed back on his head. He’s sobbing and sobbing, barely able to catch breath. Steve knows what to do, or rather, what not to do; he perches on the bed, and keeps his distance, and waits for the fit to end. So long as Tony isn’t hurting himself, there is nothing he can do. The little boy cries and cries and cries until he’s tuckered out, when he starts taking in deep, sucking breaths, and looking around like a lost soul.  
   
“You okay little guy?” Steve asks gently, holding out his arms.  
   
Tony shakes his head, rubs at an eye. “Nuh-uh,” he cries, heartbreakingly resolute.  
   
“What’s the matter?” He gets down on the floor, sits pretzel style, makes himself small and non-offensive and keeps eye-contact. That’s what the books say to do. “You normally like bath time, kiddo.”  
   
It’s important to remember that his mind outpaces his ability to speak. There’s so much he feels, and wants to say, but just _can’t._ It must be impossible, with all those _feelings_ and _memories_ and no outlet; Steve can imagine how frustrating. “I don’t wanna,” Tony says, setting off another round of fat, hot tears streaming down his cheeks.  
   
“That’s okay,” Steve says, “sometimes it’s okay not to wanna.”  
   
Tony sucks in a short little breath and sniffs. “Won’t,” he tells Steve. “Won’t.”  
   
“We don’t have to have a bath now, Tony. But why not? I thought you liked Mr Duck?”  
   
As if in protest, Tony throws the round, bright yellow baby duck across the room. It skips and rolls and lies, just a few feet away. He hasn’t really got coordination down yet. “I – bath is – “ he balls up his little fists and scrunches his face. He’s trying to communicate, _something._ “Bath is – water is – is – it’s – it’s _bad,”_ he manages, and starts wailing all over.  
   
This time, it’s the ordinary, piercing cries of a little child who’s tired, hungry, and needs a nap. Steve scoops him and lets him bawl his heart out, rocking him round the room. He sings. Tony sobs and sobs and sobs until he quietens; Steve doesn’t stop his rocking. And ten minutes later he’s asleep, fist stuck in his mouth, tears dampening Steve’s shirt.  
   
He wishes, more than anything, that Tony could just _explain._ That he could put words to what he was feeling, articulate it, spin reason from fear. But he can’t. Everything is new to him, everything strange, and scary, mixed in with old impulses and memories and fears and instincts. He trapped inside a prison of his own body, his own small mind.  
   
   
That night, Tony grows.  
   
Literally, physically. Steve is asleep, and it must happen fast, because when he wakes up, Tony is a healthy-looking three-to-four year old, and his dinosaur pyjamas don’t fit. “What were you expecting?” Julia says, grouchy. She’s upset that she couldn’t get a handle on Tony’s bath blowout yesterday. “He grows. I told you so.”  
   
This time, the mismatched parts of him seem to catch up. He has teeth. His speech stabilises into something lisping and articulate; he does a better job of making Steve understand what’s wrong. That morning, sitting at the breakfast table in a shirt that’s too big, he asks, “please can I be excused?”  
   
Steve blinks. “Sure, buddy,” he says awkwardly. “Yeah, you – aren’t you polite, huh?”  
   
Tony smiles shyly, rubs his fists over his face. It’s comical, in Steve’s huge night-shirt. They need to buy him some new clothes. “Yeah,” he says, bashful, a because he’s still too small, Steve has to lift him down to the ground and watch him toddle off to the couches where he left his building blocks.  
   
“So he grew,” Natasha says, chewing. “He said anything to you? Mentioned anything? Remembered anyone?”  
   
Steve shakes his head. “Good as gold. Other than yesterday’s – incident.”  
   
Natasha shrugs a shoulder. “Maybe he remembered.”  
   
“Remembered what?”  
   
“You know,” she says, conspiratorial. “What happened to him, way back when. He doesn’t like water. Didn’t you read his file?”  
   
“Yeah, and the damn thing was 90% redacted,” Steve grumbles.  
   
“Don’t use bad language when he can hear. And I’m just surprised it never came up, is all. He was tortured once, waterboarding, it affected him. So he hates water. Really,” Natasha says, pointedly, eyebrows raised like she’s judging, “I thought you would know.”  
   
“We’re not that close, Natasha.”  
   
“Well, you are now,” she smiles sweetly, taking a bite of her toast. “Hey Tony,” she calls.  
   
Tony’s little head perks up. “Ya?” He asks, block clenched in his fist.  
   
“How about me and you go shopping later, hmm? I can get you some new clothes. And some stuff for your room. And how about some new toys?”  
   
Tony’s eyes widen, his mouth drops. “Toys?” He asks. “Are you _sure?”_  
   
“I’m sure, little man,” Natasha smiles, picking at crumbs. “See,” she says, turning back to Steve, “he likes me.”  
   
“I didn’t say he didn’t.”  
   
“Yeah, well you were thinking it. Don’t get big for your boots Stevie,” she says, blowing a kiss in his direction and dumping her plate in the sink.  
   
Steve feels bad. He hadn’t thought about toys, not really. When Tony was smaller, the blocks were enough, plus Mr Whale, who remains a permanent fixture. “Say, Tones,” Steve asks, slipping down to sit next to him on the floor, “what toys do you want?”  
   
Tony shrugs a shoulder. “D’know,” he mumbles, mixing the blocks around, piling them up one by one.  
   
“Something cool? Like a car? Or a – rocket?”  
   
Tony’s lips are pinched. “D’know,” he says again. “Don’t want it to be for babies.”  
   
“Hey, you’re not a baby,” Steve laughs. “You’re a big boy now.” _Bigger than you know._  
   
Still, Tony is reticent. He rubs his fist over his face; it’s a nervous tic, Steve has learnt, a sign that something bad could be coming. “I don’t want to get too many toys,” Tony reasons, quiet and lisping, “’cuz when I leave, I can’t take them _all.”_  
   
“When you leave to go where?”  
   
“When Mommy comes to pick me up,” Tony says easily, like it’s a foregone conclusion.  
   
A beat. Steve thinks. “How old are you, Tony?”  
   
“Four.”  
   
Steve nods. That figures. Tony thinks he’s four, and four year old Tony… yeah, thinks he has a home to go back to. “Say, Tones,” Steve says gently, “you might be living with me for a while. How does that sound?”  
   
Tony frowns, a small indent in his otherwise smooth, plump face. “Why?” he asks, keeping his eyes fixed on the blocks, mumbling.  
   
“Because – because your Mom is real busy,” Steve lies, “and she’s asked us to look after you for a bit.”  
   
Tony’s lip starts to wobble. “Is that ‘cuz – “ he starts, having to swallow, achingly trying to stop himself from crying; it’s heart-breaking. “Is that ‘cuz mom and dad are sending me away?” He asks tearfully, resolutely _not_ crying.  
   
“No!” Steve assures, “No, that’s not – no. I think, they’ve gone on vacation, right?”  
   
Tony looks up at him, brow furrowed. “They have?” He questions.  
   
“Sure. They’ve gone on vacation, and – that’s why you’re staying with me.”  
   
Tony swallows, looks back and his blocks. “And Jarvs went too?” He mumbles.  
   
“That’s right, he did.”  
   
Tony is silent, thinking, clomping blocks lightly against the carpet. “So how comes nobody’s called?” He asks quietly, tucking his knees under his chin.  
   
“Maybe their busy,” Steve suggests.  
   
“Yeah,” Tony whispers, like that makes sense, and Steve thinks that’s real sad. “Sometimes my dad is real busy,” he confides.  
   
“That’s right. So you know it’s not because – they’ve left you.”  
   
Tony seems to think this over, gears in his little head turning. “Sometimes I get worried because I think that they don’t want me no more,” he admits. “You promise Mommy will come to get me? You pinky swear it?”  
   
 _No,_ Steve is panicking, _no, I don’t! Tell him the truth! Tell him they’re not coming back!_ “I pinky swear it,” Steve says, weakly.  
   
   
Natasha has stolen clothes from Clint’s kids that are still far too big. A big, puffy jacket that makes him look like the Michelin man, a bright red scarf with ducks emblazoned on the ends and a matching hat that near enough covers his eyes. Tony is determined, though, pushing the hat back on his head, Mr Whale tucked under his arm. “It’s cold,” he says, “so I have to wear a lot. But I think it’s cool.”  
   
Steve hides his smile. “You’re right,” he nods, seriously. “Wearing appropriate clothes is very cool.”  
   
Tony hitches Mr Whale up against his chest. “Say bye,” he tells the stuffed toy, then waves it in the air. “Byyyyeeeee,” he mimics in his best approximation of a whale voice, “byyyeeeee Mr Steve.”  
   
“You’re goofy,” Steve says, ruffling his hair. “Be good for Nat. Hold her hand _always._ Look both ways when you cross the road. Listen to everything she says.”  
   
“Even if – even if she asks me to steal?”  
   
“Stop being smart. I mean it, _listen_ to her.”  
   
“Tony’s a good boy,” Nat says indulgently. “He knows how to behave.”  
   
He watches them set out, Tony clomping in boots that are too big. He keeps waving, even after Natasha takes his hand, and grins at Steve until the elevator doors shut. It’s sweet. Life for this Tony is simple, and uncomplicated,  
   
   
When they return, Natasha is lugging three huge carrier bags through the doors, and Tony is skipping on ahead, Mr Whale tucked under his arm and proudly displaying a brand new rucksack. “It’s like the big kids have!” He exclaims, showing Steve all the pockets and zips. “This is where your pencil case will go,” he explains laboriously, “and this is where you’ll put your colouring books and math books and stuff.”  
   
“Did Nat get you books?”  
   
“Uh huh. Lots and lots. And I got a – a – play computer.”  
   
“A playstation,” Natasha smirks, setting down the boxes.  
   
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Steve chides her while Tony busies himself boxes. “They melt your brain.”  
   
“You are such an old man.”  
   
“I’ve read all about them,” Steve says, knowingly. He _has._ Garish cartoons and mind-numbing violence is _not_ something he wants to impress upon Tony now, while his brain is still young and squishy. Besides, what if he takes it in, then grows up, and ends up altered? Steve wants to make sure he has a stable, safe childhood, no matter how short –  
   
There’s clattering; Tony has emptied his crayons onto the table, grabbed his new drawing pad, and set to work. “See?” Natasha smirks. “Technology hasn’t melted his brain yet.”  
   
Steve watches his play for a while, carefully scrutinising for any change in behaviour, any abnormalities. But for all intents and purposes, Tony is a normal little boy. Slightly on the smaller side, with a bit of a lisp and a tendency to mispronounce words, but still. Nothing out of the ordinary.  
   
“Hey, little man,” Steve asks, crouching. “What’s that you got there?”  
   
“The dark,” Tony says, happily.  
   
Steve blinks. “The – oh. Yeah, no, I see. That’s a, uh.”  
   
“The dark. Like in my dreams.”  
   
“Right,” he says, slowly. Tony has coloured in the page violently, pasted it in black crayon with a wobbly blue rim. “The dark.”  
   
“Can I put it on the fridge?”  
   
“S-sure you can, buddy. Hey, what else do you see in your dreams?”  
   
Tony shrugs. “I d’know. Lots of things.”  
   
“Like what?”  
   
“Ummm,” Tony thinks, exaggerated. “Fire, I guess.”  
   
“Fire?!”  
   
“Uh-huh. Sometimes… like I’m falling.”  
   
“Falling? From where?”  
   
“I d’know. Just falling.”  
   
“And the dark – “  
   
“It’s always the dark.”  
   
“Right. That’s – Tones, does it scare you?” Steve asks, quiet, almost conspiratorial. “Y’know, at night?”  
   
Tony is silent and scribbling. “Yeah,” he decides, “sometimes.”  
   
“Do you ever see people? When you dream?”  
   
Tony says nothing. He chews his lip.  
   
“Tony?” Steve prompts. “Do you see people?”  
   
“I d’know,” he mumbles, “sometimes.”  
   
“Do you know them?”  
   
Shrugging a shoulder. “Kinda. I d’know. I  -- “ he pushes his paper away and picks up a new sheet. “Sometimes I get scared,” he admits.  
   
“Why, kiddo?”  
   
“Because – the people tell me things. They talk like they know me. They say rude things, y’know,” and he lowers his voice “ _rude words,”_ he whispers.  
   
“What do they say?” Steve presses.  
   
Tony shakes his head. “Can’t.”  
   
“You won’t get timeout, I promise.”  
   
Tony looks unsure. “Really really promise?”  
   
“I really really promise.”  
   
Tony seems to consider. “Sometimes, I dream that you hurted me.”  
   
“I… hurt you?”  
   
Tony nods. “Mmm-hmm. In the snow.”  
   
“I hurt you in the snow.”  
   
“It doesn’t belong to you,” Tony chirps, a juxtaposition.  
   
“What did you just say?”  
   
“ -- doesn’t belong to you!” Tony snatches back his picture from Steve’s hands. “I drawed it.”  
   
“Drew,” Steve corrects him, absently. “Say, Tony, do you ever dream about – “ How to phrase it? How to ask, without scaring him, or setting him on edge, or putting ideas in his head? “ – water?”  
   
Tony makes a noise behind his teeth. “This is another one I drawed,” he says proudly, ignoring the question, or not hearing it.  
   
“Drew,” Steve reminds again, taking it from his little hand. “It’s very good. But Tony – do you ever dream about – “  
   
“It’s Mr Bucky, and Green Jarvs,” Tony interrupts. “I didn’t have green crayon, so I did him orange.”  
   
“Do you have any other bad dreams, Tony?”  
   
“Do you like it?” He ignores him, tapping the scribbled Bucky. “I gave him a smile because he frowns so much.”  
   
How does Tony know that? How does he know Bucky frowns, when yesterday he was practically a baby? What’s his point of reference? As far as Steve knows, he hasn’t even _seen_ Bucky today, so how has he drawn him so accurately?  
   
Steve is loathe to call Ross with anything, but it needs to be figured out. Could it be that Tony is just remembering? He remembers his parents; he takes it for granted that they’re still alive, seemingly not knowing they’re dead. But he has dreams about Siberia, dark voids, drowning. Those aren’t childhood memories, not at all.  
   
The worry is that he’ll get mixed up. He won’t grow up to be the same Tony he was before he was shrunk, or, as Tony would say, shrunked.  
   
Steve resolves himself. Maybe experts will need to be consulted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i leave this for a month? hmm. suspicious. 
> 
> i'll try and update more regularly, i promise. i hope y'all are still reading! i'd love to know how young!tony comes across to you all because.... children are hard


End file.
